I confess that war, pestilence, natural disasters and the nation’s collapsing infrastructure have recently done a good deal to erode my sense of humor. I’m guessing that you, in turn, likely have your own inner struggles with our blemished planet.
To cheer myself I decided to take a little walk around my neighborhood. The weather was fair after the Biblical Midwestern floods. I was feeling cautiously optimistic. As far as I could tell I wasn’t dead.
Then I met them: a middle aged couple strolling about ten to fifteen yards ahead of me on the sidewalk.
Now you may well ask: “How do you know they were a middle aged couple, etc. since you can’t see worth a damn,” and I’d say to you that you’re absolutely right—they might have been past middle age—they could have been Senior Citizens, or perhaps they were a couple of lumpy Sasquatch wearing Izod shirts and shorts.
And you’d be right to point out this “wrinkle” of veracity not merely in this instance but in all narrative employments rendered by means of my pen.
It’s true: I have no idea what these two individuals look like. But if you want truth I suggest you read the “Style” section of the New York Times.
They were slow. And they were trying to go faster because I was coming up quickly from behind with my guide dog.
Their respective feet suddenly went “skippy-scuppy, skippy scuppy” and I could hear the drape of their considerable shorts making “zith zith” noises.
Yep. They were almost running to stay ahead of me. Then they reached the perpendicular turn that I was planning to take, and sure enough: they stopped and spun around (shorts making little gulping noises) and they stared as I came toward them.
In the split second when they might have said “Hello Citizen” or “Boy Howdy Pardner!” they said nothing. They were staring. They were also blocking the very turn I was planning to take and since they had enough time to look at me and say something and chose instead to say zilch I felt the old “creepy crawly disabled person being stared at by toddling pink people blues”.
It happens sometimes. I have a nickname for these kinds of people. I call them “Bob and Betty Boop”.
Continue reading “Ota Benga Blues”
Planet of the Blind 